“Well, listen,” I said, turning onto Earhart, “I’m heading to Baton Rouge. I can take you all as far as that.”
An uncomfortable silence greeted my offer. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed a few of them exchanging frowns and arched eyebrows.
Now, what?
Before I lost my patience, I decided to ignore them for a while and just continue driving down Earhart, swerving around bodies, zombies, and stalled cars whenever necessary. Eventually, I planned to merge onto South Clearview Parkway and turn onto Airline Drive, which would ultimately become Airline Highway and hopefully guide me all the way to Baton Rouge – and to Clare.
Chapter
31
“Good. Bad. I’m the guy with the gun.” – Ash, Army of Darkness (1992)
A few minutes later, I heard murmurs behind me. My passengers had begun talking amongst themselves, quietly enough that, with my compromised hearing, I couldn’t understand their words. Clearly, they didn’t want me to understand.
I gazed down at my hip holster. Wisely, I’d checked the .38 before leaving Home Depot – just to ensure it was fully loaded. Since my passengers weren’t likewise armed, I wasn’t exactly worried. Just annoyed.
“Jesus,” one of the women suddenly said. “Why’s it so hot in here? Do you have the heater on?”
“I’m having radiator problems,” I explained without turning around. “The heat helps to keep the temps down.”
“Well, can you turn it off?” one of the guys asked. “Maybe turn the A/C on instead?”
“I said,” I insisted, “the radiator is having some trouble. The heat needs to stay on. Sorry.”
Can’t believe I just apologized to these asshats.
“Listen,” another guy interjected, “maybe we need to talk about where we’re headed.”
“What?” Had I heard him right?
“Yeah,” one of the women added, “maybe we should vote on where we should go.”
“I’m going to Baton Rouge,” I repeated.
My van. My decision. Piss off if you don’t like it.
“That’s not right,” another woman protested. “There are seven of us in here. We should all have a say.”
What the holy fuck is going on? What’s wrong with these people?
I had kindly welcomed them into my van, just moments before they would’ve become zombie food, and that was how they repaid me: by staging a mutiny?
As far as I was concerned, even Azazel’s opinion counted more than whatever those pricks wanted – and I was positive that, if she could’ve spoken English, she would’ve ordered me to keep heading toward the state capital. Where her beloved mama was.
“Yeah, we should turn around and head east,” the whiny redhead stated. “We heard Baton Rouge was almost as bad as New Orleans.”
“Look,” I said through gritted teeth, “I’m going to get my wife in Baton Rouge. You can either ride there with me, or I can let you out now.”
“No, we should drive to the East Coast,” the redhead repeated.
That’s it. I’ve had enough of this bullshit.
Slowly, I unbuckled my seatbelt and, reaching downward, pulled a towel-covered bundle from beneath my seat. While still navigating my way down Earhart, I carefully unrolled the towel, slid the contents of the bundle into my lap, and leaned sideways to cover Azazel’s carrier.
“Yeah, we have friends in Savannah,” another man said. “Joyce and I think that’s where we should go.”
Murmurs of agreement followed his proposal.
“Yes,” a woman, presumably Joyce, concurred. “Savannah is the perfect choice. Our friends have an enormous house by the coast.”
“Uh, Joe, is it?” Ugh. The whiny redhead again. “Could you turn around? We need to take I-10 East.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed all three of the guys had risen to their feet and were slowly approaching me.
So, that’s how it’s gonna be? After I saved your fucking lives?
I kept driving and gazed down at my lap.
From the dining table, one of the women must’ve been watching me. “What’s that?” she asked.
“A gas mask,” I replied, calmly pulling it over my face.
Then, before anyone could react, I slammed on the brakes, stopping my vehicle in the middle of the westbound lanes of Earhart Expressway. The three men tumbled onto the floor, and the women yelped.
I held out my right hand. With my left, I yanked the pin from the tear gas grenade and dropped both onto the floor behind my seat.
“Get the fuck outta my van!” Just in case that wasn’t persuasive enough, I pulled my .38 from its holster and faced my flabbergasted passengers.
As the gas quickly filled up the van, I made sure the towel was tucked tightly beneath the edges of Azazel’s carrier. The next instant, my new passengers’ confusion morphed into horror. Screaming in pain, they hastily stumbled toward the rear doors. Some still gripped their suitcases, others had left them behind, but all of them wanted off the ride.
With undoubtedly stinging eyes, the dark-haired man fumbled with the locks for what seemed like forever, then he pushed open the doors and tumbled into the street. His compatriots swiftly followed, still shouting and crying and cursing my name.
As soon as the last woman dropped out, I put my foot on the gas and rolled about fifty feet forward before stopping again. I walked toward the rear of the van and turned on the high-capacity fan I’d mounted to the ceiling. Figured it would help to dissipate the gas and blow it out of my vehicle. Meanwhile, I tossed the remaining suitcases onto the road, kicked the tear gas canister outside, and, still wearing the gas mask, observed the assholes I’d just unceremoniously gassed and dumped into the street.
In theory, Clare wouldn’t have approved of what I’d done, but if she’d realized just how close I’d probably come to losing our vehicle – and perhaps Azazel, too – she might’ve reconsidered.
As for me, I simply couldn’t muster sympathy for the six ingrates coughing in agony on the asphalt, clutching their faces and rubbing their eyes. They’d accepted my charity without question and all but spit in my face. Sooner or later, selfish people like them would get others killed. In the end, maybe I’d done a service for my fellow survivors.
For a moment, I stood in the doorway, not really rationalizing my actions…
Cuz fuck them.
Then, as I pulled one door shut, I noticed a figure step into the street, about thirty feet behind the van. It wasn’t a zombie, at least not like all the others I’d seen. For one thing, it seemed to walk with purpose.
Abruptly, it stopped, turned its head, and stared at me. I couldn’t help but scan its features; my curiosity was just too overwhelming.
Even through my gas mask, I could tell it wore ragged pants, with no shoes or shirt. It had well-defined muscles – and sparse patches of hair on its body. Incredibly, it showed no signs of decomposition whatsoever.
Strangely, its hands featured long nails, as if they hadn’t been cut in years. Really, they seemed to resemble claws.
As we continued to gaze at each other, I realized that, unlike the zombies I’d encountered all day, the creature appeared to possess some measure of intelligence. While I’d been assessing it, its eyes had been surveying me, too, as if its brain was trying to process what it had just witnessed.
It definitely wasn’t a zombie, but I wasn’t sure it was fully human either.
Whatever the fuck it was, I needed to get out of there. I just had to keep moving forward.
Turning away from me, the creature headed toward the huddle of my former passengers as they continued to cry and cough. While locking the rear doors, I saw it close the gap by leaping the last ten feet and bowling into the group. Heartless as it might sound, I didn’t intend to watch the carnage about to occur.
A moment later, I’d returned to the driver’s seat, laid the mask on the floor, and removed the towel from Azazel’s carrier. She gazed at me with moist, red-rimmed eyes and meowed sad
ly. Despite my precautions, the tear gas had obviously seeped into her carrier.
“I’m sorry,” I said, opening the gate. “I know you don’t understand why your eyes are stinging, but I promise it’s for a good reason. Your daddy had to protect you from a bunch of selfish fucktards.”
Slowly, she emerged from the carrier, hopped onto the floor, and stretched her legs.
“No matter what, though, I think you’ve earned a walkabout.”
While Azazel made a beeline for her litter box, I shifted the van into drive and stepped on the gas. Back on track again, I breathed a little easier.
Well, shit.
I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to put Clare’s ring back in her jewelry box. Once again stopping, I felt my pocket for the round outline… but it wasn’t there.
“Fuck.” A sense of panic gripped my innards. “Where the hell is it?”
As the frustration mounted, I abruptly recalled my brief cleanup in the Home Depot restroom. Frantically, I searched through the bag of dirty duds – and exhaled an enormous sigh of relief when I located the ring. After sanitizing both it and my hands, I tucked the ring into my pocket and reclaimed the driver’s seat.
So glad I didn’t burn my jeans, like Jenny suggested.
What a nightmare if I’d lost my wife’s ring somewhere during the day’s surreal adventures… if it had slipped out of my pants when I’d tumbled in Home Depot or crawled across the makeshift bridge or crashed into the cat litter display inside the Pet Mart. No way in hell I’d return to the city, but still, I’d have felt like a real jackass for risking my life for the damn thing in the first place.
Luckily, though, I didn’t have to fixate on that. I just needed to keep my eyes on the road and focus on seeing Clare again.
And fuck if I’ll be picking up any more strangers.
My altruistic vein had just run dry.
Emerging from her litter box, Azazel looked up at me. A single tear dribbled down her furry cheek. The tear certainly wasn’t for the idiots we’d just dumped on the road. I didn’t feel bad for them, and I doubted she did either. I did, however, feel guilty that, even with the towel over her carrier, she’d unfortunately suffered a bit from the gas. After the harrowing day we’d had, I owed her some tuna. A whole helluva lot.
“It’s alright, girl. Those people sucked ass.”
I didn’t know what that creature was I’d just seen, but I knew I didn’t want to mess with it. It was time to get the fuck out of New Orleans. I simply needed to get to Clare and keep heading north.
Even over the rumbling engine, I heard a loud screech from behind us. Gazing at my side-view mirror, I realized not one of the assholes was moving. Worse, the figure stood nearby, staring at us.
A few seconds later, it had vanished.
Fuck this.
I hit the gas and continued down the expressway, hoping nothing and no one delayed me from reaching my wife. After the fucking horrific day I’d had, even my mother-in-law would be a welcome sight.
Well, not sure I’d go that far. But who knows? Stranger things have certainly happened.
Survive the Zombie Chaos
CONTINUE THE CHAOS
Highway to Hell: Zombie Chaos Book 2 - On Amazon
Out of the frying pan… into the fires of zombie hell!
Getting out of undead-infested New Orleans was only the first step for Joe. With his cat, Azazel, in tow, he will have to trek nearly eighty miles to Baton Rouge, where he hopes to find his wife, Clare, still alive.
But these days, the road to good intentions is soaked with blood, brains, and zombie foulness. After all, the Big Easy outbreak isn’t an isolated incident, and Joe still has to drive the ol’ zombie-mobile through an assortment of highways and byways crawling with the undead. Of course, it might be the living that pose the greatest threat. Gotta love humanity… Not.
Highway to Hell is the second book in the Zombie Chaos series, a post-apocalyptic tale filled with graphic language, graphic gore, and, naturally, graphic snark.
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About the Authors
D.L. Martone is the joint pen name of husband-wife duo Daniel and Laura Martone. Part-time residents of New Orleans and northern Michigan, the Martones travel the country in their mobile writing studio, a cozy RV dubbed Serenity. As you might have guessed, they’re huge fans of Firefly, which is why they remodeled the interior of their travel trailer to resemble Captain Reynolds’ beloved spaceship. Together, they enjoy writing space opera, fantasy game lit, urban fantasy, time travel, cozy mysteries, and, of course, post-apocalyptic zombie tales.
Acknowledgments
We appreciate the support from our friends, families, and fellow writers – and the inspiration gleaned from various zombie flicks and TV shows, especially Shaun of the Dead, The Walking Dead, and George Romero’s Dead movies – as well as our fellow fans of such stories.
Of course, we couldn’t have started this series – or finished this book – without the love and support of each other and our beloved kitty, Ruby Azazel.
Lastly, we’re grateful to you, our fellow survivors, for joining Joe on his harrowing journey through zombie-filled New Orleans and beyond.
Highway to Hell
Zombie Chaos Book 2
by
D.L. Martone
Copyright © 2020
D.L. Martone
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors – except for brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authors’ imaginations and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, and individuals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For more information, visit the authors’ website: dlmartone.com
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even if they’ll likely never read a zompoc series
We have some AWESOME merchandise for sale in our store!
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D.L. Martone Store
Chapter
1
“They may not seem like much one at a time, but in a group, all riled up and hungry… Man, you watch your ass.” – Morgan Jones, The Walking Dead (2010)
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel with renewed frustration.
In my never-ending effort to flee the New Orleans area, I’d hoped to follow Earhart Expressway to Clearview Parkway, which would’ve resulted in a brief trip to Airline Drive. But thanks to a pileup of abandoned cars, decaying bodies, and twitching zombies on the northbound exit, I’d been forced to head south on Clearview, the wrong goddamn direction from my intended target.
I’d just passed the multiplex theater where my wife, Clare, and I had spent countless enjoyable hours together (one of many places we’d have to forfeit in the brave new zombie world) when I’d encountered what seemed like my hundredth traffic jam. For some inexplicable reason, numerous idiotic motorists had tried to escape the undead city by taking the Huey P. Long Bridge across the Mississippi River, a route that appeared to be jam-packed with charred vehicles and r
oaming zombies. Since I had no intention of getting my fortified step van stuck at the top of that stupid-ass bridge and risk plummeting into Ol’ Man River, I’d impulsively taken a shortcut, hoping to find an easy way to turn around and retrace my route north.
As I’d long suspected, though, hope was a fucking four-letter word.
To untangle myself from the traffic jam, I’d careened the wrong way down Jefferson Highway and pulled into a familiar Walmart parking lot. I’d visited that particular store many times during the decade Clare and I had called New Orleans home. Oddly enough, it was one of the few places that stocked my favorite locally made fishing lure, which had ensured me and my wife plenty of success while casting for speckled trout in Lake Pontchartrain and the bayous near the Gulf of Mexico. Yet another Louisiana pastime I’d forever miss.
Goddamn zombie apocalypse.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 17
